


Whom My Soul Loves

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 05:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: He played the song again and again, letting the music invade his senses until he was lost in the melody of his hope and despair, his fear and joy: that somewhere out there, someone might love him.





	Whom My Soul Loves

Erik watched with mild amusement and exasperation as the corps de ballet huddled in their quarters, bunched together on a few beds that had been pushed together, admiring the trinket hanging from La Sorelli's long, thin neck.   
  
"It's so beautiful," one girl whispered, and Sorelli nodded with a firmness that suggested she knew exactly how lucky she was.   
  
"But is he your soulmate?" Another asked skeptically, the others quick to admonish the girl as they tried to cover the question with more remarks of how the diamonds sparkled in the dim candlelight.   
  
But Sorelli was in high spirits, and unwound the ribbon she kept tied around her wrist, revealing to them a bright red swirl of lines, tangling together to resemble a reef knot. She held her wrist out for the other girls to see, a knowing smile gracing her lips. They had all seen her Mark before, but now she wore it with a special, particular pride.   
  
"You mustn't tell," she said, doing her best to sound like the mature twenty year old she was. "Promise."   
  
The other girls all nodded their agreement, some even crossing over their hearts. Sorelli's sophisticated grin melted into one of pure girlish delight. "He is."   
  
The girls all screamed, then quickly hushed, fear of Madame Giry finding them overshadowing their delight. More quietly, the girls pulled at Sorelli, begging for more information.   
  
"Where is his?"   
  
"Is it red too?"   
  
"How did you know?"   
  
"When did he show you?"   
  
"Are you going to get married?"   
  
"Married? She can't, she'll have to leave us!"   
  
"On no, Sorelli, don't leave!"   
  
Laughing, Sorelli hushed them. "I'm not going anywhere yet," she assured them, "And for the moment, nothing is to come of it. I will finish out the season, and then we will see."   
  
** * **   
  
Erik watched as the girls continued to gawk and gossip over the mark, some even revealing their own and wishing for the day when they found their match. Silently, he watched as Christine, his pupil and delight, let her hand lift to rest against her thigh, thin fingers trailing wistfully over the mark that rested beneath the satin of her dressing gown. She glanced down at the mark that remained hidden, then returned her gaze to Sorelli, laughing as the girls passed the necklace around, each trying it on and proclaiming they too had received a gift from a wealthy patron.   
  
Turning away, the Phantom deigned to give the girls privacy for their silly thoughts of true love and soul mates. As he walked, his hand wandered up to his mask, which underneath held his despair and his hope.   
  
He'd been born with his deformity- a token of God forsaking him. His mask had been his only source of comfort, given to him by his cruel mother, who saw him as nothing more than a burden. Not even for all his talent, could she see past his ugliness and appreciate him.   
  
And then, after years of despair: hope.   
  
It had appeared not long after his twenty-fifth birthday. It was a blistering hot day in Persia, and he'd removed the hard leather and wiped his face with a handkerchief he'd dipped in a basin in Nadir's home. In the ripples his reflection had shown his marred flesh on one half of his face, and then suddenly, the mark on the other.

  
So stricken by the rippling image before him, Erik actively sought out a mirror for the first time, and stared in confusion and horror at the lines of notes trailing over his face.   
  
It was a cruel twist of fate, as most things in his life had been, he thought bitterly.   
  
He'd thought there was no one for him. And then suddenly he had a mark that suggested otherwise. Now, eighteen years later, he'd yet to find the one to whom he was meant for, and he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he was once again subjected to God's cruel hand. To know he could be loved, but to never find that kind soul who could see past his face? It was a crueler fate than knowing love was not meant for him.   
  
His introspection kept him occupied all the way back to his home underneath the Opera Populaire. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, taking time to refresh the candles that had extinguished in his absence. Once complete, he settled at his organ, pulled off his gloves, and let his fingers trail over the keys in a song only he knew.   
  
They drove him mad, those notes. When he'd first discovered them, he'd copied them down, careful to get it correct as he'd had to rely upon his image, backwards in the glass. That parchment was old, musty, wrinkled; nearly unreadable. But Erik did not need the paper to play with perfect precision the notes that developed his heart-song.   
  
He'd spent years trying to determine what the music was- it had to exist elsewhere. But despite his searching, he'd found no origin. The notes were as unique as anything he'd ever heard, and their author could only be God Himself. It was a song only he knew, only he heard, and it echoed in his mind, haunting him like a ghost, finding its way into all his compositions like an unshakeable shadow.   
  
He played the song again and again, letting the music invade his senses until he was lost in the melody of his hope and despair, his fear and joy: that somewhere out there, someone might love him.   
  
** * **   
  
The next day, Christine entered her dressing room, wild mass of blonde curls heavy and dirty from where she'd trained all day. It was due for a wash soon, she thought as she ran her hand through her curls, fingers catching on the numerous tangles. She moved stiffly around her room, grimacing as the effort to walk caused further discomfort. Sitting at her vanity, she winced when her reflection confirmed she looked as ragged as she felt. Tired eyes, bags underneath, messy hair, and feet aching tremendously.   
  
Bending over, she carefully untied and slipped off her shoes, hissing as the dried blood on her toes pulled against her skin. She inspected her shoes with a sigh. She would need another pair, as these were stained.   
  
Tossing them aside with annoyance, she stood, wincing with each step as she moved behind her modesty barrier to change out of her tutu into a dressing gown. Once finished, she returned to her vanity where she brushed her hair, taking time to carefully brush out the tangles until her hair felt softer and more manageable.   
  
Unsteadily, she rose and fetched her bowl and basin, which had been refreshed not long before she'd arrived. She poured water, steam rising, and with a mixture of a sigh and a groan she sat and slipped her feet into the hot water, seeking to relieve the pain.   
  
Head falling back, Christine sighed as her sore feet burned from the hot water, soothing the overworked appendages that seemed to ache down to the bones.   
  
As she rested, eventually lifting one foot out of the water to gently massage it,  she let her thoughts drift to the night before. La Sorelli had found her true love. It made Christine's heart soar to know that the Soul Marks truly did lead people to each other, class and station be damned. It gave her the assurance that someday her own true love would come, in time.   
  
She lowered her foot into the cooling water and brought the other up, gently pressing it with her fingers and palms, massaging her toes and trying to ease away the pain. In the distance she heard a clock chime seven, and she cursed in her native tongue, quickly trying to figure out what to do with her mess before-   
  
"You are in pain, my dear."   
  
She stiffened, but turned to face the mirror and nodded guiltily. She hadn't wanted her angel to see her this way, but he seemed to have the most impeccable timing, showing up as if the slightest thought summoned him.   
  
"I am fine, my Angel," she said softly, grabbing a towel to quickly dry off her bare feet, curling her toes underneath to block them from view. It wasn't comfortable, but Christine had always hated her feet, which had been further misshapen from the brutal sacrifice which her art demanded.   
  
She glanced about the room, located her slippers, and moved with less grace than she'd like to retrieve them, feeling better now that her feet were hidden. She returned to the mirror and sat cross-legged at its base.   
  
"I merely lost track of time," she said as she settled. It was an excuse she used frequently, but thankfully her angel had yet to call her out on it.   
  
"You are a diligent student," the voice said softly, the sound wrapping around her like a caress, "I demand excellence, as you know, but I understand that you cannot practice at your best if you are unwell or rushed."   
  
"Thank you. What shall we review tonight?"   
  
"Tonight," he whispered, "We shall review the aria from Hannibal."  
  
"But I am only dancing," Christine protested lightly, "I have a solo in the ballet in act three. Surely you do not think they will replace La Carlotta with myself? And not at such short notice!"   
  
"I think," the angel said, "That La Carlotta will be indisposed."   
  
"You speak as The Phantom does," Christine remarked. It was not the first time she had likened her angel to the Phantom of the Opera.   
  
"What is an angel but a phantom with noble intentions?"   
  
Christine raised a brow, "One is sent by God. The other is a poor soul doomed to eternal struggle here." She paused and then added, "Though there are those who claim the Phantom is nothing more than a man."   
  
"And what do you think?"   
  
Christine stared at the mirror, biting her lip as she thought, "I think," she said diplomatically, "That, man or spirit, so long as he does not harm anyone, he is welcome to be as mischievous as he desires." She straightened then, and glanced up at the mirror. "But we are not here to discuss that. You want me to sing. Shall I start with my scales, angel?"   
  
"Yes," the voice replied, "And soon, your talent shall be known through all of Paris!"   
  
** * **   
  
Erik returned to his home, tossing his hat and cloak onto the coat rack at the entrance. It was an old, ratty piece of furniture that was more suitable as firewood than holding his clothing, but it was the first thing he'd purchases with money "earned" from the opera house numerous years ago. Erik was not a man of material sentimentality, but he held a soft spot for the bent and broken rack, and thus it stayed, looking even more pathetic next to the elaborate furniture that decorated the rest of his home.   
  
Returning to his organ, he sat, and let his head rest in his hands. Christine was so close to being ready for her debut! She had performed marvelously during their lesson, despite her obvious fatigue. He knew she adored ballet, but her heart longed to sing, and he believed she was ready.   
  
Paris, however, would not be.   
  
The city would fall prostrate before her in awe, an angel in her own right, blessing them with the gift of her voice. Erik felt chills travel down his spine as he thought of her voice- oh how he loved her voice!   
  
He loved all of her, mark on his face be damned.   
  
He had tried to subdue the feelings, but they persisted, rising up within him with a determination that rivaled his own stubbornness. He loved her, even as he knew she would remain true to her mark: a mark he had never seen nor heard her mention.   
  
He knew it was there, had seen the tale-tell motions she made toward her thigh whenever the conversation came up with her fellow performers. Erik sighed. How could he come to love someone not even meant for him?   
  
Though, he reasoned, there were plenty of people who were happy enough without their soulmate. He'd known a handful of people who had fallen for someone with a differing mark, and they'd been just as happy.   
  
We're the marks merely suggestions, then? And if so, what was the purpose of receiving one if there was no guarantee of that person being yours?   
  
Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he let his hands rest on the keys and began to play his song, humming along and wishing he could hear the voice of the one who was meant to sing with him.   
  
He imagined the sound, unsurprised when it was Christine's voice in his head. His hands fell from the keys and he turned away from the organ to stare at the silent, unoccupied room before him.   
  
"And such is my fate," he murmured to himself, then pushed his thoughts aside to prepare for Christine's debut.   
  
** * **   
  
"Angel or Phantom. Friend or foe?"   
  
He'd revealed his hand. An unintentional side effect of his plan, but now he was revealed to his prized pupil, who looked adorable as she glared at her reflection, hands resting on her hips.   
  
"To the first, both. To the second, I am your friend."   
  
She huffed. "Friends do not lie to one another."   
  
"I have never lied to you, my dear Christine."  
  
"But you've told half-truths," she countered. "Are those not unworthy of an angel?"   
  
"Perhaps," Erik said with a grin. He'd not thought she would put the pieces together and discover him. But she had, and he couldn't help but feel proud as he faced her righteous anger.  She was so small before him, but her eyes were glowing with nerves and passion and annoyance, and his love for her swelled. "But am I not your friend, regardless of the form I take?"   
  
She calmed at that. "You have always been kind."   
  
"Then?"   
  
She thought for a moment then huffed, "It was still unkind to terrify La Carlotta like that."   
  
He laughed, an unearthly sound that filled her dressing room. "She is unharmed, save her pride, and received far less than what she deserves."   
  
"She is not a gracious person," Christine agreed, "But surely my debut should be without such controversy!"   
  
"If left to those new so-called managers and their idiot patron, you would remain in the corps for the rest of your career," Erik replied hotly, "I am simply providing a nudge in the proper direction."   
  
"Well," Christine said, rocking on her heels, "I only hope I live up to your expectations."   
  
"My dear," Erik soothed, "You already have."   
  
** * **   
  
The door to the dressing room slammed open and Christine rushed in, arms full of bouquets from her new admirers. She pressed the door closed with her back and let out a soft squeal of delight as she buried her nose into her flowers.   
  
She was followed by Meg and one of the costume ladies, who took the flowers from her, draping them on her vanity while Meg led the stunned singer behind her modesty barrier to help her change, the two girls chattering all the while.   
  
"I cannot believe it!" Meg cried as she helped Christine shimmy out of the piles of skirts, "You were amazing!"  
  
"I feel amazing," Christine said dreamily, "I wonder if this is how La Carlotta feels when she sings."   
  
Meg stuck out her tongue. "That old biddy hasn't an ounce of awe left in her," Meg replied as she handed the costume to the other woman who made her way out with a bow, "But you! You were like a dream! And I believe the Viscount noticed, too."   
  
Christine paused. "The Viscount is generous, indeed, then."   
  
"Oh, come, Christine, surely you'll want to see him again, after all these years!"   
  
Christine pulled on her robe and tied it a little too tight in her distraction. "I don't know, Meg. Perhaps tomorrow."  
  
"What if he is...you know?"   
  
Christine laughed. "I can assure you he is not."   
  
Meg pouted, but said nothing more of it. They spoke more of the performance, the conversation only ending when Madame Giry discovered her daughter and ushered her away for a post-performance rehearsal.   
  
Finally alone, Christine turned to the mirror, hands wringing anxiously as she waited. When nothing happened after a few moments, she stepped forward, staring hard at the mirror, willing herself to see past it.   
  
"Brava, brava, bravissimo."   
  
Her head snapped up at his voice and she skipped up to the mirror, hands pressed against the glass.   
  
"Oh, Angel! I did it! I sang for you tonight! Please tell me I pleased you!"   
  
A soft laugh greeted her. "No greater gift has ever been bestowed upon me," Erik replied from his place behind the mirror. Christine eyes shone at his approval.   
  
"In fact," Erik said, speaking before he had truly allowed himself to dwell on the matter, "Because you have pleased your angel and phantom so, I would like to bestow a gift upon you."   
  
Christine beamed. "Oh yes please!"  
  
"Lock the door."   
  
She was gone in an instant, racing across the room to lock the door, then ran back, dropping the key on her vanity amongst the bouquets of flowers.  
  
"Are you going to sing for me?" She asked, excited. "Tell me a heavenly secret? Present me with the most glorious bouquet ever? Maybe a diamond necklace to rival La Sorelli's?" She added with a coy laugh.   
  
She was teasing, he knew. She was quiet and reserved around others, but with those with whom she was close, her charming wit and sometimes blunt remarks shone through. He was privileged to see that part of her, even as she had-up until now- held a level of awe-inspired reverence toward him.   
  
"Better," Erik said, his own desire to see her, feel her, taking control. She'd been breathtaking tonight, and like her, he felt high on the thrill of her triumph. He needed to share in that with her, no glass, no lies, no secrets between them. Damn the mark, he loved her, and if she loved her angel, respected the Phantom, surely she could come to feel those things for the man who embodied both!   
  
Without allowing himself to dwell on the matter further, he flipped the lever and the mirror opened, and suddenly they were before each other, face to face.   
  
Christine gasped, scrambling back. "You are a man!"  
  
"Indeed," Erik said, making no motion to step into her world. "And yet I have always been your angel."   
  
Christine's arms crossed over her chest, awe and shock giving way to annoyance. "You are a great many things, it seems, sir." But then her stare softened and her arms fell to her sides, and her head bowed. Softly she whispered, "I prayed you would be real."   
  
"And so I am."   
  
She glanced up at him, smiling brightly and for a moment that look was a far greater gift than her debut on stage: that had been shared with the world; this smile was for him alone.   
  
"I can hardly believe that after all this time-"   
  
A knock on the door startled them both, and through the door they heard the voice of the Viscount calling her name.  
  
Christine looked alarmed, then without hesitation, she rushed forward toward the open mirror. Erik stepped aside to allow her in, and with a quick gesture, the mirror closed.   
  
A moment later, the Viscount entered behind Madame Giry, who held a key in her hands. In his, a single rose. Christine looked behind her, and in the dimness Erik lifted a finger to his lips. She nodded, then looked back into her room.   
  
Raoul looked around in confusion, whilst Madame Giry simply stood still, eyes purposely never venturing over to the large mirror.   
  
"It was an overwhelming night for her," the older woman said to the worried man, "Perhaps she went to pray?"  
  
"Yes," the Viscount nodded, "Perhaps."   
  
With that he fled, and Madame Giry followed behind at a leisurely pace.   
  
Once she was certain her visitors were long gone, Christine turned and sagged against the mirror.   
  
"That was close."   
  
"You do not wish to be swept away by the Viscount?"   
  
Christine shook her head, then leaned forward, looking past her companion toward the hallway before them.   
  
"He is a dear childhood friend; but that is all. I have not seen him for many years. And now he is a patron who has set his affections upon me."   
  
Erik felt jealousy grip his heart; that boy had only been around for a few days and already was causing trouble! One de Chagny had been bad enough: the Comte Philippe was ignorant of the arts but enjoyed them nonetheless, and thankfully stayed more engaged in the business side of things. Erik could appreciate that, at least. But this younger brother of his fancied himself far more understanding of art and had already made several suggestions that caused Erik's blood to boil.   
  
"I can deal with that, if you wish."   
  
Christine shook her head again, taking a few idle steps down the dark, dank hallway. "No thank you. I need no angels, phantoms, or men-" she turned and gave him a pointed look- "Dealing with anything."   
  
She turned back and took a few more steps, heedless of the darkness before her. "You live here, don't you? Inside the Opera Populaire."  
  
Silence followed, then he said, "Yes."   
  
"Show me?" She asked. "You promised me a gift."   
  
"Was my revelation not enough?" He asked, good humored as Christine moved down the hallway, heedless of the darkness before her.   
  
"That was a surprise," she said with a conviction he knew she felt in her bones. "Your gift can be showing me your secrets."   
  
"For one performance?" He asked as he followed, "Tell me I have not created a diva the likes of Carlotta!"   
  
Christine stopped and turned, hands on her hips once more. "You have lied to me for three years," she accused, "Whoever or whatever you are, I don't like secrets being kept from me."   
  
"Then I shall reveal myself, one secret at a time. So long as you speak of this to no one."  
  
Christine giggled, then turned back to the hallway before them. "As if anyone would believe me."   
  
After a few minutes, Erik stopped her with a gloved hand gripping her elbow. "It is dangerous from here, for those who do not know the way," he said. "My first secret."   
  
"A good one to know," Christine agreed, letting him step ahead of her. Turning back he held out his hand, waiting, and Christine watched for a long moment before taking it.   
  
He led her down, down, until at last they reached the gondola. The lake below the opera house was by no means a pleasant place, but the novelty of it left Christine gasping in excitement.  
  
"We are going across the lake?"   
  
"Another secret: It ensures no one will venture to my home."   
  
"You are very brave indeed, then. I would not travel this alone."   
  
Nevertheless, she took his hand once more and let him assist her into the gondola. When she was seated, he pushed off, slowly guiding them along the quiet waters. "It is not so dangerous," he said at length, "So long as you do not heed the siren's song. She sings sometimes, you see."   
  
Christine stared at him through the dark, eyes narrowed as she tried to determine whether or not he was serious.   
  
"Sirens are not real," she said, then paused, nervous, "Are they?"   
  
"I shall ask her, the next time I hear her song."   
  
"I think I am content not knowing," Christine said at length, then turned, blinking as she saw light in the distance. "We are nearly there!"   
  
"Indeed."   
  
The boat landed on the shore, and Erik stepped out, assisting Christine as she moved unsteadily to dry land. She waited as Erik opened the door, then stepped inside.   
  
** * **   
  
Christine's breath caught.  
  
His home was ornate, even as it was in the bowels of the opera house. She could hardly believe it as she turned, taking in the artwork, the grand piano, the warmth of the burning fire. It was cozy, the kind of home a man with fine taste would acquire, and if it weren't for the sound of the lake just beyond the door or the distinct chill in the air, she would not have known she was underground.   
  
"How long have you been here?" She asked, stepping forward to run her hands over the piano.   
  
"Too long, sometimes," Erik spoke as he came to stand behind her. "There is a room for you, if you would like it."   
  
She turned and looked up at him, the light from the fire and numerous candles illuminating the mask on his face. "You anticipated this," she remarked.   
  
"I hoped," he stressed. "A great difference."   
  
She considered that, offered him an accepting look, then turned to continue exploring.   
  
When she finished, she approached him, looking sly and mischievous. "You spy on me."  
  
Erik paused. "I do no such thing."  
  
"My favorite perfume is in that room," she said, pointing behind her. "As are some dresses in my favorite color, and the soaps I use. You are giving yourself away, sir."   
  
"I may know your preferences, but I do not spy," he repeated, though it was not entirely true. He had spied, but had always retreated before she was immodest. He was a monster, but he had lines he would not cross.   
  
"I wonder what else you know," she questioned, "And I wonder what you will let me know."  
  
"What do you want to know?" It was a dangerous question, but she was standing before him, coy and in her nightgown and Erik had long since given himself to fate that evening.  
  
"Oh, a great many things," Christine said easily, dismissively, "But I'll start with your name. It's not entirely appropriate for a young woman to be alone in a man's home and not even know what to call him."   
  
"Angel," he replied, "The Phantom."  
  
"Yes, those are indeed your names," Christine agreed, "But I want to know the name of man who knows my favorite perfume and keeps a vial of it in hopes that one day I'll come back. Because I simply cannot let it go to waste, you see. A thoughtful, but cunning gesture on your part."   
  
Even as her words were straightforward and firm, she was smiling, glancing up at him through her lashes. It was more than he could bare. She was flirting with him and had been accepting to his hopeful- but unsubtle- advances.   
  
Could fate really be so kind?   
  
"The name of that foolish man is Erik."   
  
Christine hummed at the revelation, then held her hand out to him. He watched it for a long moment, then accepted it in his. "Well, Mr. Erik, I am Christine. It's a pleasure to meet you."   
  
And oh, a pleasure it was indeed!   
  
** * **   
  
She slept in the next room. Erik could hardly think of anything but that simple fact. She slept in the next room. She was here, in the flesh. She had been surprised, but not put off by his human form, and she had been coy and flirtatious and blunt and if speaking to her when she's thought him an angel had been a delight, speaking to her now that she knew who he was was even more wondrous! She was blunt, charming- just as she was with Meg, and to see this side of her was the greatest gift he'd ever received.  
  
He spent the night awake, not wanting to miss a moment of her being with him. Instead he played softly, forcing himself not to play the song that moved his very heart to beat. He dare not hope that she awake to hear the song and respond. It was not to be.   
  
He could find out, his mind supplied, and he instantly shoved the thought away. He would not trespass into her room, would not violate her privacy or body to look at her flesh where he knew her own mark lay.   
  
No. Love could bloom regardless of the mark. He had seen it; had read countless stories written in which marks were wrong and love found in the arms of another. It could be done.   
  
When she awoke the next morning, he greeted her as a gentleman would, with a small, humble breakfast of porridge and eggs, and she flushed and thanked him as she ate and listened to him play a few light melodies on the piano.   
  
He gave her a lesson afterward, then instructed her to change so he could take her back to the world above for rehearsal. "The star cannot be late," he informed her, "And at any rate, these halls cannot bear another diva."   
  
"No, I dare say two are more than enough," she said with a laugh, retreating to her room before he could realize she'd meant him.   
  
"I am hardly a diva!"   
  
Her laugh through the closed door was his only response.   
  
With a shake of his head, he returned to his organ to play, and soon became caught up in the music. His eyes slipped closed as he played, the song easing away his nerves and tension and soon he forgot everything but the notes under his skilled fingers.   
  
He was barely aware of the sound of a door closing and shuffling steps approaching him. He continued to play, startling when he felt hands upon his face, feather light and soft.   
  
His hands shot from the keys to his face, catching her hands in his. "What are you doing?" He hissed as he turned to face her. His rage settled in an instant at the look of shock on her face.   
  
"I'm sorry," she said, not trying to pull her hands away. "You looked so peaceful. I... I don't know what came over me."   
  
Slowly, he let go of her hands, surprised when she resumed her exploration of him. Her hands traveled over the mask, but made no attempts to remove it. Against his better judgement, his eyes slipped closed and he sighed at her touch; he had no memory of the last time he'd been touched with such gentleness; even with the feeling of her hands upon him dulled by the mask that covered his entire face, knowing she did not fear or hesitate to touch him made his heart soar.   
  
"Erik," she whispered, "Will you tell me why you wear this mask?"  
  
His eyes opened, met hers that looked upon him with curiosity and affection. Slowly, he clasped her hands in his and removed them from her face.   
  
"A story for another day, I think."   
  
"The trip to the surface is a long one. Surely we cannot spend it in silence?"   
  
With a weary sigh Erik stood. "Very well."  
  
Fetching his cloak and hat, he escorted her back to the gondola, his heart heavy.   
  
Once she was settled and they drifted along the lake, she looked up at him. "Well?"   
  
Erik took a moment; how to begin the tragic tale that was his life? And how to rely such events in a manner that would not frighten her away?  
  
"I was born... deformed." He said at last. "Underneath this mask is a face not even Erik's poor mother could love."  
  
He heard a soft breath escape Christine. "Your own mother? How cruel!"   
  
"You have not seen the horror that lies beneath."   
  
"It makes no difference!" Christine said passionately, "You could not help how you were born!"  
  
Such kind words had never been spoken! He felt his lips twist up in a semblance of a smile. "Thank you."   
  
"You live here to hide away, then?"   
  
"The world is a cruel place. Better the living think I am a spirit or demon- a fitting role for my appearance."  
  
"You are no demon."   
  
"You are kind to an old monster."   
  
Christine huffed, but accepted his hand as they reached the shore. "You cannot be an angel and a monster."   
  
"But as you can clearly see, I am not an angel."   
  
Her hands clasped around his arm, forcing him to lift it to properly allow her to loop her arm through his.   
  
"You are my angel," she insisted as they walked together. "At the very least, you were sent to me by my father. I believe that with all my heart."   
  
"Perhaps I was merely in the right place at the right time?"   
  
Her head shook, her curls bouncing, "No. I do not believe it was mere coincidence. I think we were meant to find one another. For whatever purpose."  
  
She spoke with such conviction, it was hard not to believe her. He wanted to, but he'd never before felt as if he were meant to be here; he'd always felt as if he'd merely stumbled upon a good thing and had taken advantage of the opportunity- but his Christine believed that they had found each other for a reason.   
  
Could it be? He wondered, then thought better of it. He'd been deceived by hope before, and he would not hope until he had proof in front of him.   
  
** * **   
  
Christine arrived at rehearsal, unsurprised but disappointed to see Carlotta strutting about, furiously flapping the morning's news in her hand. She was shouting in her native tongue at the managers who looked frightened, and Christine felt pity for them.   
  
A moment later Carlotta turned around and, laying eyes upon Christine, stormed up to her and thrust the paper toward her.   
  
"You think you can sabotage me!" She shouted, "You cannot! I am what the people want and you are nothing but a jealous little upstart!"  
  
"Cara, there's no need-" Piangi started behind her, but was silenced by a gesture from his love.   
  
"No! You do not sing! I sing!"   
  
"I believe," Christine said carefully, "That neither of us have a say in who leads a production."   
  
"I have a say!" Carlotta shouted, "And not some phantom who thinks it funny to play tricks!"   
  
At that she turned and stormed off, leaving Christine and Piangi in her wake. The man stepped forward and gave Christine an apologetic look.   
  
"The papers say you were stunning," he said, "I think she is only realizing she is no longer in her prime." He gave a small chuckle, "Nor am I."   
  
"I think you are both still wonderful," Christine said softly, "Even if La Carlotta is a little mean sometimes."   
  
Piangi laughed. "Oh my dear, you do not know how right you are!"   
  
He gave her shoulder a gentle pat, then followed after his wife, hoping to appease her.   
  
Shaking her head, Christine approached the managers, who were speaking with the Comte and Vicomte.   
  
"Ah, Miss Daaé!" Firmin declared as he held out a hand to her. She took it and smiled.   
  
"Good morning, Messieurs."   
  
"A good morning it is indeed!" Philippe declared as he took her other hand. "You, my dear, have all of Paris talking!"   
  
"Good things, I hope."   
  
"Oh without a doubt! The people are clamoring for La Daaé's return to the stage."  
  
Christine blinked. "But La Carlotta-"  
  
"Is old news," Philippe said dismissively. "You are the future!"   
  
Raoul nodded. "Yes, you were splendid. I only wish I could have told you last night. It's been too long, Christine."   
  
"It has indeed," Christine agreed, "But you must forgive me; I was overwhelmed after the performance. I fear I would not have been very good company."   
  
"Perhaps tonight, then."   
  
"Perhaps," Christine agreed hesitantly. Raoul smiled and kissed her hand, and she felt the echo of a flutter from their childhood days. He had grown into a handsome young man. But he was not for her, and she felt a small pang of guilt that she had not told him of her mark long ago.   
  
She'd wanted to spare his feelings, but now it seemed he'd returned with his hope and intentions renewed. She would have to tell him the truth.   
  
"In the meantime," the managers said, "Our patrons have made it quite clear that they want you to perform. The press adore you!"  
  
"But what about-"   
  
"Oh we'll handle her," Philippe replied easily. "You are going to draw in crowds near and far, the likes of which this place has never seen!"   
  
"You're too kind," Christine said, tucking her hair behind her ear.   
  
"Kindness has nothing to do with it," Andre replied, "You are bankable, my dear, and that is what will keep this place up and running!"   
  
** * **   
  
Christine returned to her dressing room confused. She was delighted at the thought of singing- of being the lead!- but Carlotta had been so upset, and rightfully so. Sighing, Christine sat at her vanity and stared at her reflection, the large, brown eyes, pale skin, and mess of blonde curls. She was much younger than Carlotta, thinner and more athletic. The other woman was no longer in her prime, but Christine felt a distinct sadness at being a part of ripping the woman's career away.   
  
Suddenly, Christine perked up, a thought coming to mind. Rushing out of her room, she raced through the halls of the Populaire until she came to the manager’s office. Without waiting, she entered, startling the group that resided within.   
  
Carlotta was seated, Piangi standing behind her. She was clutching a handkerchief and wiping her eyes. Andre, Firmin, and the de Chagny's were on the other side of a large, ornate desk, and they all looked up at her in surprise, and on Carlotta's part, disgust.   
  
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, "But I want to share."   
  
Several pairs of eyes blinked at her. "I'm sorry, what do you mean, 'share'?" Andre asked.   
  
"It's wrong to simply replace La Carlotta, after so many years of service to the Populaire," Christine said, further entering the room, heart pounding in her ears, "If you truly want me to sing, then we should at least be kind to La Carlotta and let her finish out the season. We can share. There are six performances a week: we can each take three. Then at the end of the season we can renegotiate the contracts."  
  
"I do not need your pity," Carlotta spat.   
  
"I do not pity you," Christine returned, "You are a cruel and unkind woman, but you deserve to be recognized for your talent. That is my offer, rather than you simply be ushered away out the backstage into obscurity."   
  
"You little-" Carlotta stood, but Piangi's hand on her shoulder steadied her and her rage dissipated. "I want four."   
  
"Three. Equal."  
  
Carlotta glared at Christine, then huffed. "Fine."   
  
Both women turned to the managers, who stared wide-eyed and silent. "I think we can all agree to that," Firmin said slowly, looking to the others for confirmation. One at a time they nodded their heads, and just like that, the deal was done.   
  
Satisfied, Christine grinned, curtsied, then left the room. She did not make it far before the high-pitched voice of Carlotta shouted her name. Bracing herself, Christine turned slowly to face the other woman, who for once did not seemed outraged.   
  
"I would not have done what you did," she said, voice still terse, "You are kind."   
  
"Thank you."   
  
"Kindness will not get you far," Carlotta warned. "You will be taken advantage of, if you are too generous with your kindness."   
  
"I will remember that."   
  
"See that you do." Carlotta took a moment to size her up. "You have talent. You should not waste it sharing the stage with me."   
  
"And yet I remain decided."  
  
Carlotta shook her head. "You are a fool, girl. But then, aren't we all?"   
  
With that, she turned and retreated, leaving Christine to mull over her words. She made her way slowly back to her dressing room, wondering how Erik would react to her decision. She huffed and squared her shoulders. She didn’t care how upset he was; she’d made her choice and she would demand he respect it.   
  
When she returned to her dressing room, she was surprised to see Erik already standing in front of the mirror, hands on his hips and a scowl on his face.   
  
"Three a week?" He asked dryly.   
  
"Better than none."   
  
"You could have had them all!"   
  
"And La Carlotta would have been cast aside," Christine replied sternly, locking the door and moving closer to him, trying to keep her voice down, "I know you dislike her-"   
  
"Everyone dislikes her-"   
  
"But-" Christine continued, "She did not deserve that. No one does."   
  
Erik sighed, looking down at his pupil. "You are determined?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Then we shall be satisfied with only three decent performances a week."   
  
She gave him a look. "Angel, that is unkind."   
  
"As I said this morning, I am not a good man."   
  
"And as I said, you are my Angel, and I refuse to believe you are bad, even if you hid yourself from me."   
  
Her determination was fierce, he thought as he looked upon her. She refused to acknowledge the truth that he was a monster in gentleman's clothing, but then, if she believed it so fiercely, then could it not one day be true?  
  
"Three shows a week, then. It is a start."   
  
"And it is more than I had before."   
  
"You deserve the world."   
  
"I would be happy with just your acceptance and your company."   
  
Stunned to silence, Erik found himself sitting in Christine's dressing room as if he were a normal man, answering her unending stream of questions about his life in the shadows of the opera.   
  
Some time later a knock sounded in her door. Christine looked over suspiciously, and when another knock came she turned to whisper for Erik to hide, blinking in surprise to find him already gone- no trace of his presence to be seen.   
  
She looked at the mirror apologetically, then answered her door.   
  
"Oh! Raoul!"  
  
"I'm not disturbing you, I hope?"  
  
"No," Christine said uncertainly, backing up to invite Raoul in. "Please."   
  
He entered, laying his hat and scarf on the chaise nearby, then turned.   
  
"At least we are alone and I may speak freely: Little Lotte, you have grown up!"   
  
"As have you," she said, moving to sit a respectable distance away from Raoul. She justified her caution as being wary that someone may have seen Raoul enter. With Erik, no one was the wiser of his visits and she did not have to worry so much about propriety- especially not after having slept unchaperoned in his home!   
  
"I've only gotten taller," he said with a wave of his hand, "But you, Christine you are a marvel! I recall your singing long ago, but truly you have transformed into something heavenly!"   
  
"It was not of my own volition, I assure you."   
  
"Then you have a tutor? Who is it?"   
  
Christine glanced at the mirror, then back to Raoul and grinned. "Why, the Angel of Music, of course."   
  
At her words, Raoul laughed heartily, and moved to kneel in front of her. "Oh, Christine, I see you have not changed so much at all! You're still that little girl whose scarf I fetched from the sea!"   
  
"And you the rambunctious boy."   
  
"I admit it!" Raoul declared proudly, "My time at sea did not change me as much as my brother hoped!"   
  
"You will have to tell me of your adventures," Christine said with a smile, "But for now I must wait in suspense. I must prepare for tonight."   
  
"Yes, of course. You are far busier than I!"   
  
With that he stood and bent low in an elaborate bow. Christine laughed and stood, curtseying to him and showing him the door. He stood a moment, then turned, taking her hand in his. "Have dinner with me tonight, after the show."   
  
"Raoul," Christine said with a sigh. She looked down, then back toward the mirror, then returned her gaze to him, "Perhaps on Sunday. We can take a stroll through the park and you can tell me of my dear _friend's_ adventures." She stressed the word, and Raoul smiled softly, despite the sadness that flashed through his eyes.   
  
"Yes. We are friends, aren't we, Christine Daaé?"    
  
"Dearer friends could not be found."   
  
With a nod, Raoul released her hand. "Then I bid you a good night, and look forward to your performance, my lady."   
  
Turning, he walked away and Christine shut her door, locking it before turning and sagging against it with a heavy sigh.   
  
"That boy is a menace."   
  
Christine glanced over at the mirror. "He is a friend. We played together long ago as children."   
  
She moved away from the door and stepped closer to him. "Will I see you tonight?"   
  
"Your angel would not miss an opportunity to lavish praise upon his muse."   
  
Her cheeks flushed at that, and she nodded, glancing away, then moving to her vanity. "Good," she said softly, "I look forward to it."   
  
** * **  
  
She returned to him that night, glowing from the thrill of singing. She spent the immediate aftermath of the performance with the managers, then her friends, but at last she slipped into her dressing room and when she saw Erik standing at the mirror she rushed to him, throwing her arms around him, and causing him to stumble from the unexpected onslaught of affection.   
  
She held onto him tightly and at length he recovered and wrapped his own arms around her, hands shaking and breath caught in his chest. He held her to him, the feeling of her pressed against him more addicting than the strongest drug. His sense of smell was his weakest sense but he could still breathe in her scent, and he thought that if her were to die in that moment, he would be content.   
  
"Angel, please tell me how I did?" She asked, voice muffled from where her head was buried in his bony shoulder. "Did I please you?"   
  
Oh she had done more than pleased him! She has restored his faith and filled his soul to the brim with joy. He told her as much and he felt her smile against him.   
  
"Come," he said, pulling away though it pained him, and he led her through the mirror. "We shall celebrate."   
  
Nights spent with him in his home became a frequent routine. When she performed she would join him below, though sometimes he was required to carry her for her exhaustion left her unable to stay awake even as she was reluctant to stay above ground.   
  
Eventually Hannibal ran its course and preparations for the comedy Il Muto began. Christine and Carlotta would alternate the lead roles, and while Carlotta complained all the while, she was less venomous to Christine, even going so far as to offer some helpful advice when she was certain no one was watching.   
  
Finally the performance opened, and Christine brought the crowd to their feet in her charming rendition of the Countess. When Erik joined her later, he presented her with a bouquet of red roses and a bow.   
  
"Never have I been quite so charmed by an adulterous Countess," he said as Christine laughed and accepted the flowers.   
  
"Flatterer."   
  
"I speak the truth. You were a delight. But I could tell near the end that you were tired."  
  
"Yes," Christine agreed, "I'm glad I decided to split the performances. It will help me build up stamina."   
  
"Perhaps a wise decision, after all."   
  
He ushered her through the mirror and led her down the dark passageway.   
  
"I must admit I will be glad when it's over. I do not think I'm suited for comedic roles."   
  
"Nonsense," Erik said as they reached the gondola and he assisted her inside, "You were born to make others smile. As captivating as you are in any role, I find you quite charming in comedy."   
  
Christine smiled but remained silent. Erik guided her to his home and she made herself comfortable on the sofa, motioning for him to sit with her. He did so, keeping a proper distance between them, which Christine found quite humorous. After a moment of thought, she moved closer and asked, "May I ask something of you, Angel?"   
  
"You may."   
  
"It's... a personal question."   
  
"You wanted no more secrets. I'm obliged to at least consider the question before I decline to answer."   
  
"Yes. Well, what I want to know is.... Do you... Well, I wonder... Do you have a mark?"   
  
Of course she would want to know. Of course she would ask. He could not blame her her curiosity, as the topic was frequently discussed amongst the girls. "You don't have to answer," she said quickly, "I only wondered."   
  
"I do not mind," Erik said slowly, "Yes. I do."   
  
She gasped. "You do?"   
  
"Is that so hard to believe?"   
  
She realized how her reaction must have sounded and was quick to apologize. "I must be more tired than I thought," she said, "I meant nothing by it. I merely... I suppose I still see you as my angel who needs no such mark. But you are indeed a man."  
  
"A man with a mark."   
  
She glanced down, then back at him and whispered, "May I see it?"   
  
Erik shifted away from her slightly, instinctively fearful that his mask would somehow vanish and leave him exposed.   
  
"No," he said, hoarse, "I would not upset you so."   
  
"Why would it-" she paused, then her mouth fell open in an 'o'. "Your face."  
  
"Yes. The mark meant to lead me to my supposed soul mate rests on the most unloveable part of my being. Such tragic irony, no?"   
  
Christine looked down, fiddling with the fabric of her dress. "It's sad," she whispered, "Everyone deserves to find their soul mate."   
  
"Such naive optimism," he breathed, and Christine looked at him sharply.   
  
"Better than bitter and cynical."   
  
"I've every right-"  
  
"Yes," she said quickly, standing, "Yes you do. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I'm tired. I think I will retire. Good night." With that she turned and fled to her room, the sound of the door closing booming far louder in his heart than she’d actually shut it.    
  
** * **   
  
Distraught, Erik moved to his organ and played a few lullabies. Once he was certain she was asleep, his hands trailed over the keys, mindlessly playing old compositions and losing himself in the music, eager to forget the sorrow on Christine's face when she'd all but run from him.   
  
She'd never run from him; not when she'd learned he was the Phantom, not when she'd learned he was a man. Not when he’d told her the truth about his face. But to tonight he'd scared her away. Granted she was only a few feet away, but he once more felt like an outsider, like a monster who had caused undue harm and upset the one person who cared for him.   
  
Heedlessly, needing to remind himself that he could be loved, his hands moved over the keys, the familiar melody consuming him and filling him with that bitter hope that he could- would- someday be loved.   
  
He imagined it was Christine, that she bore the same mark as he and that together they would play and sing their heart-song together and nothing would ever read them apart-  
  
"Where did you hear that?!"  
  
Erik stopped playing abruptly and turned, seeing Christine standing before him, blonde hair sprawling down her back, eyes wide in shock.   
  
"Christine-"   
  
"You _have_ been spying on me!" She accused, her voice shrill with upset, "How else would you know that music? No one knows that music but-"   
  
"You," Erik finished as he stood from the seat of his organ.   
  
Christine blinked at him, eyes welling with tears. He stepped closer, and slowly, hesitantly, reached up and removed the mask from his face. On one side, marred flesh and bone mangled together in knots to create a hideous portrait of suffering and agony. On the other, the skin was smooth and fine, but covered in strands of music from temple to cheek. "I have known this song for eighteen years," he whispered.   
  
Christine’s eyes widened and a breath escaped her as she looked upon his face. Her eyes moved from one side to the other, trying to reconcile the demon’s flesh from the normal, yet marked side. She stared, stunned by his revelation- his words and his gesture- until at last tears formed in her eyes and she breathed in shakily. "I'm eighteen."   
  
He nodded, but dared not come closer. Slowly, Christine met his gaze and reached down and grasped her nightgown, pulling the fabric up slowly, her bare legs drawing Erik's eye. She lifted the skirt past her thigh, and there on her left leg, wrapped around the sinewy muscle, was a strand of music that Erik instantly recognized.   
  
Falling to his knees, Erik buried his deformed head in his hands and wept. “Oh God!” He cried, “Oh, Christine!”

He sensed her movement, the rustling of her nightgown against the floor, the soft sound of her feet on the stone, until she was before him. He felt her bend, her arms wrapping around shoulders as she pressed her nose into his neck, tears wetting his skin.    
  
"I prayed it would be you."   
  
Tears wet his own face, and he cried her name again as she squeezed him tighter. His own arms moved from where they covered his face to wrap around her and they held onto each other, crying and clinging and amazed, until finally Christine let go and sat back. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she once more lifted her dress to expose the ink black strand of notes.   
  
"I never sang the notes for fear the wrong person might hear and try to deceive me," she whispered. "I wanted to hear it first. And then I met you and you began teaching me and not a night went by that I didn't dream of your voice forming the notes..."   
  
Tentatively, his hand moved, resting against the strands of music imprinted on her skin. She shivered beneath his touch, but made no move to push him away. Slowly his fingers traced over each note, the song filling his mind as his fingers moved, and he took a shuddering breath before bending over and pressing his malformed lips to her leg.   
  
"In all my years," he whispered, "I never believed I would find you. That you could-" he broke off. Just because they bore a matching mark did not mean that she felt as he did.   
  
"I do," she whispered, as if reading his thoughts and seeking to eliminate them. "Oh, Erik I was so afraid it would not be you. I could not bear the thought."   
  
"Christine..."   
  
He lifted himself up, and she caught his head between her hands, holding his face with gentle hands as she let her forehead rest against his.   
  
"I have found the one whom my soul loves," she breathed, and Erik could do nothing more but weep for joy. His tears wet her hands and she brushed them away and he returned the favor, the missed droplets falling to mingle together on the floor between them.   
  
"And this wretched soul loves you," he whispered brokenly, "It is a pitiful gift, but it is yours nonetheless."   
  
"No greater gift has ever been bestowed upon me," she recited, and he recognized his words from the night he revealed himself to her.   
  
No other words would suffice to express his genuine awe and devotion and elation, and so he merely held Christine to him, relishing the feeling of another in his arms, willingly, eagerly, and for the first time in his life, Erik understood what it meant to be loved.

**Author's Note:**

> I am all about soulmate AU's. They are my jam. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.


End file.
